Tonight (Best You Ever Had)
by ceruleanblues
Summary: AU. "Well, all I'm saying, is that, on paper, first times can sound like a dream from that Fifty Shades novel, but the truth is, it's a blur of hands and tongue, and nobody usually knows what they're doing, which I'm guessing was probably what happened between you and Sam."


**A/N: **Hi guys! It's me again, and I've come bearing another oneshot. This idea sprang up on me while I was writing the last part of Roads Untraveled, and I couldn't leave it alone. It was haunting my sleep because of the sheer fun it would be to explore, and also a gift for the readers who've stuck by me and constantly given me the support and encouragement. This is comedy and smut all in one, of the idea that sex isn't always perfect the first time round. Takes lots of patience, practice and communication.

Enjoy!

xXx  
CeruleanBlues

* * *

**Tonight (Best You Ever Had)**

It wasn't pretty the first time; not as enjoyable as what those pop songs spoke of, and definitely not as sexy as any of the scenes depicted in movies and TV shows. If there was truly one word to best describe it, Quinn Fabray reckoned she would use 'awkward', because it was excruciatingly so.

At the risk of possibly emasculating her bedfellow's manly ego, she gnawed on her bottom lip and tried her best not to flinch at the way his fingers were digging painfully into her sides. She was certain he was going to leave bruises on her skin, amongst the many others he had already left in his overly-excited wake. He might've grabbed her breasts a little too enthusiastically once or twice, squeezed them as though they were his stress balls, and she had nearly wanted to toss his ass to the floor.

Nose buried deep into her neck, Sam Evans had his tongue out and slobbering all over her ear, she wondered if she had fallen into bed with a golden retriever. In a way, that was exactly what he felt like.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she forced her thoughts away from the chaffing against the insides of her thighs or the burning friction that came with each hearty thrust, and instead tried to focus on the endearing side of sharing her first sexual experience—and as much his—with the boy-next-door that knew her well enough to trust that she wouldn't give him a bad review to the rest of her friends. She almost snorted at the prospect, because as much as she loved him, there was no way in absolute hell she was sharing this excruciating moment with anybody.

He was panting, hot puffs of air against her cheek, and she could smell the traces of root beer as he trails his lips lower to capture her own. His kisses grew sloppy even as his rutting—or humping, rather—turned somewhat frantic. She had to assume that he was close, his incoherent mumblings now but gurgling sounds and shortened grunts, and she wondered if there was anything she could do to help speed this up. Her apex was past being uncomfortable now, was just screaming for it to end, and she was dreading the massive soreness she would be dealing with in the aftermath.

"I'm coming, Q," he growled, entwining a fistful of her blonde curls and unintentionally giving it a hard tug. "So close."

She winced at the pain in her scalp—she couldn't help it—and reflexively, her knee shot up and connected with the side of his ribs. He yelped, immediately pulling out her as he recoiled in pain, his arms wrapped around his torso.

"Oh, shit!" she cried out, sitting up to check on him. "I'm so sorry! Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he wheezed, blinking rapidly to clear the tears as he inhaled gulps of air. "I'm good."

She gently placed a hand on his shoulder, apologetically rubbing soothing circles. "You sure?"

"I just need a second," he grated out.

It was then that she found the situation oddly hilarious. Stifling an amused grin as best as possible, she couldn't help but steal a peek down as his softening shaft, his boner now miserably deflated.

"I think you need a bit more than that."

* * *

He wouldn't touch her—wouldn't even attempt to kiss her—for an entire week, and avoided the conversation as best as he could. Saying that he was embarrassed was a massive understatement; he was mortified. In a moment of weakness, he had even entertained the thought of asking for Noah Puckerman's expert advise, but that was quickly dismissed when he had made a flippant remark about Brittany S. Pierce's fetish with leather and latex. The probability that he would be at the tail end of a running joke scarred him enough to hold his tongue.

Still mulling about it long after the last bell had rung, he wasn't even aware that Quinn had caught up to him until he felt her fingers curl perfectly around his and realized that she was leading him towards the parking lots.

"Hey, are you okay, Q?" he asked, suddenly nervous by her actions. "Is something wrong?"

She didn't reply; simply continued the trek until she came to a stop in front of his battered old car. Pointedly, she arched an eyebrow, and he made a mad scramble to fish the keys out of his pocket. As soon as he clambered behind the wheel, she was pouncing on him from across the gearshift, taking him by the face and mushing her pliant lips against his. It wasn't the soft peck that she usually reserved just to greet him, but rather a full-on snog that left him a little more than dazed and confused. A loud, wet smack punctuated the kiss, and then she was staring solemnly back at him.

"Drive. Home. Now."

He didn't question her, instead peeled out of the school gates with tires screeching and the determination of an incredibly aroused teenager. His knuckles were turning white from the sheer tightness of his grip on the steering wheel, and in his peripheral, he noticed how Quinn was toying with the hem of her yellow sundress. It was his favorite, and he wondered if she wore it on purpose that day.

When he finally rolled up in her driveway, she hadn't even waited till he killed the engine before hopping out, rounding to his side and practically dragging him by the lapels of his flannel shirt up the set of steps that led to the front porch. She released him only to unlock the door, and then she was shoving him up against the nearest wall. He opened his mouth, preferably to say something, but those wonderful lips of hers had intercepted, and anything that didn't pertain to snogging his girlfriend was easily forgotten.

His twitching hands moved on autopilot, settling nicely in the curves of her waist as he reeled her closer, pressing her tightly against the hardened bulge straining in his jeans. She whimpered and moaned, and before he could lose a nerve, his tongue had slipped out and was running across the seam of her lower lip, drawing out a gasping sigh from the depths of her throat. It was a sound he never wanted to stop hearing, a tune he would like to listen to on playback every night before he went to bed and wake up to every morning, thank you very much.

"What are you doing?" he chuckled quietly when he noticed her struggle with his button-down.

"Trying to take this fucking thing off," she grumbled, brows furrowed in concentration, and it had to be single-handedly the most adorable thing he had ever seen. "What do you think, you idiot?"

"It's not working."

She paused and brought her nose a scant of breath apart from him. "Then help me."

Between them, the offending clothing landed successfully on the floor, and then she was working on his T-shirt—the one with the Superman logo on it—and trying to peel it off his body. It became a flurry of cotton and denim after that, a race to disrobe each other in record time, and then they found themselves down to their skivvies in the entryway, staring uncertainly at each other now that the inevitable couldn't be ignored any longer.

"So…"

He cleared his throat, reaching up to rub the nape of his neck.

"So…" he echoed.

"Rachel said that sex is like facing stage fright head-on," she muttered, and he could recognize the beginnings of a ramble from a mile away as she tucked some stray strands of hair behind her ear. "You need to just take a deep breath, go out there and do it; get that first few seconds out of the way."

He wasn't sure what to make of that. "Wait, you talked to Rachel about our—" he swallowed, feeling the blood whooshing to his cheeks. "Problems?"

"Not specifically," she shrugged. "As a generalization."

A wave of relief swept through his person. "Oh."

She nodded, if only to fill the silence. "Yeah."

"So we should just—" He made sweeping motions with his hands, gesturing between them. "Get it on, then?"

Quinn straightened her spine and squared her shoulders, jutting her chin out. "Yes."

"You're not going to knee me in my ribs again, are you?"

For that, he received a well-deserved thwack to his bicep. "Shut up."

They stood there for a bit, both in anticipation and trepidation, and he was starting to feel a bit ridiculous—currently sporting a half-mast erection in a pair of blue boxer shorts and white socks—not knowing where to place his hands. Very hesitantly, he allowed his eyes to wander down to her soft pink satin brassiere, appreciating how the material cupped her ample chest just right where the milky curves of her breasts dipped into a valley, punctuated by a tiny little bow. He remembered how she tasted like over there, how incredibly soft and exquisite it was, and any hope of controlling his male urges was gone.

"Should we go upstairs?"

He tore his gaze away from her cleavage, but the words were failing him. Dumbly, he nodded his assent, and she extended one arm, wriggling her fingers invitingly for him to take.

The walk up the stairs seemed endless, but soon enough they were standing at the foot of her bed, and they were back to staring stupidly at each other. He saw her inhale a shaky breath, and he reckoned she was probably going through Rachel Berry's analogy in her head. Gingerly, caressed the length of her left arm, running his thumb from the inside of her wrist up to the bend in her elbow and further north till he landed on her shoulder.

"Stage fright?" he murmured.

"Just a bit," she whispered.

"Me too."

She glanced up at him, then, her eyes a maelstrom of emotions. "It shouldn't be this difficult, right? I mean, are we supposed to be spazzing out so much? Shouldn't sex come naturally?"

"Maybe it's different for everybody."

"Be honest with me, Sam," she said. "Aside from that unfortunate mishap with my reflexes, was it even good for you? Did you enjoy all that fish flopping?"

He opened his mouth, prepared to spout out the first response he could think of that wouldn't bruise either one of their egos, but one look at the sincerity in her delicate features, and he knew she deserved his outmost honest opinion.

"No," he sighed. "It wasn't, and I didn't."

She sat down on the edge of the mattress and he followed suit. They didn't speak for a while, both contemplating what this new development would mean to their budding relationship.

Eventually, she broke the silence.

"Maybe we're not as ready as we'd like to think."

He figured she could probably hear his heart shattering into a million pieces, but he couldn't deny the truth behind what she told him. He knew, of course, that intimacy wasn't everything—they had been officially together for half a year, after all—and there was plenty else that made up their relationship, but a month ago, they had agreed that perhaps they could venture to newer heights.

Perhaps not.

* * *

She didn't much fancy tailing after her mom around like a lost puppy in the supermarket; so the second Judy Fabray had gone to grab a shopping cart, Quinn had slipped away to her own devices. As always, she headed straight for the candy aisle, scanning the shelves for something new to gain diabetes from. A rainbow-colored packet of Skittles caught her fancy before she strayed towards the shelf of magazines.

One of those women's periodic caught her eye, all flashy with bold, bright pink fonts, and with it, an article that intrigued her enough to flip over to the allocated page. After casting a quick glimpse over her shoulder to ensure that her mom wasn't lurking about, she began reading. Naturally, the column was talking about a healthy sex life—something she was sadly lacking in department—and statistics that showed how eighty percent of couples never enjoyed their first rodeo.

"You're being safe, though, aren't you?"

She jumped, startled at the sound of her mother's voice.

"Jesus, mom," she exclaimed, hastily shoving the magazine back between the racks. "Stop being a creep."

"Are you and Sam engaging in an intimate relationship?"

This conversation was well on the way of being horrifyingly humiliating, and definitely not something Quinn would like to get into in the middle of a semi-crowded supermarket, but the older woman was relentless.

"You know, Quinn, you have nothing to be embarrassed about," she said. "I know what you're going through and I completely understand that you're curious, especially with all those raging hormones—"

The seventeen-year-old stopped dead in her tracks and turned to glare at her mom. "Seriously? We're going to talk about this here?"

"You know, my first time ended up being in a washroom at the back of a pub during your Aunt Becky's hen night," Judy went on, completely oblivious to how her daughter was inching further away with each second that passed. "There was this guy I bumped into on the dance floor, and he was much older. I had just turned sixteen—fake ID and everything—and he was probably close to thirty, and I had one too many shots. One thing led to another, and before I knew it, he was deflowering me in a tiny stall that smelled really rank—"

"Not that I'm not enjoying this," Quinn interrupted, feeling as though she would probably need to bleach her ears and brains following this uncomfortable situation. "And I'm really not, but is there a point to this somewhere?"

"Well, all I'm saying, is that, on paper, first times can sound like a dream from that Fifty Shades novel, but the truth is, it's a blur of hands and tongue, and nobody usually knows what they're doing, which I'm guessing was probably what happened between you and Sam."

The heat rushes up her neck to the tips of her ears. Internally, she was cringing.

"All that anticipation and nervous energy, it's not going to be great the first few times," her mom continued. "But don't shy away from it, either. It's going to take a bit of practice to find your groove and what fits between the both of you. Don't just bulldoze your way into it and expect a burst of fireworks to happen. You two need to communicate."

"You do realize that you're encouraging me to continue having sex with my boyfriend, right?"

"I do have a few ground rules, though," she informed, her voice taking on the authoritative parental tone. "But first, we're getting you on the pill."

"Great," Quinn groaned. "More embarrassing stuff."

* * *

He decided spontaneity was possibly the best way to approach their little predicament, until he started planning on how he would actually be spontaneous, and then it sort of defeated the purpose of it in the first place. It was wrecking his brains and slowly taking a toll on his sleep-addled mind because everytime he closed his eyes at night, all that resided in his dreams were scenes that belonged in a movie out of an X-rated video store.

**Ah, alright**

With the amount of making out they had been doing in the past couple of days—nothing more than copping a feel of her wonderful breasts through the fabric of her bra and dry humping fully clothed against each other on the couch while a rerun of a sci-fi sitcom played on the television—he was worried that he might end up with a permanent hard-on for the rest of his life if nothing were to ever happen.

"Q?"

She hummed in acknowledgment but otherwise kept her eyes glued to the page of her textbook. He sighed and turned his body to properly face her.

"I—I don't mean to sound like a prick or anything," he stammered out, averting his gaze towards the ugly painting on the wall and hoping she wouldn't tell how fast his pulse was racing. "And I really do enjoy kissing you and all, I honestly do, but you need to know how incredibly tempting you look with those shorts and that top—fucking driving me crazy here—so can we please just have sex right now?"

Well, that didn't come out the way he had planned; certainly a wee bit more desperate than he intended.

One perfectly-sculpted eyebrow sprung up, her expression a blank slate as she regarded him closely, and he was worried for a moment if he had offended her with his over-eagerness, or the crass way in which he had made the proposition. Spontaneity indeed.

"I mean, if you want," he timidly added with a slight shrug.

She shifted in her position, closing the thick book and calmly setting it down on the coffee table.

"Okay."

He blinked.

Once.

Twice.

"Really?"

There was a twinkle of amusement in her striking hazel eyes as the corner of her lips twitched in an effort not to grin, but he reckoned he probably resembled a cartoon character with a dumbstruck expression and his mouth hanging open in disbelief.

**Ain't this what you came for  
****Don't you wish you came, oh  
****Girl what you're playing for**

"Yeah," she nodded. "Practice makes perfect, right?"

"Absolutely," he blurted out entirely too quickly.

**Ah, come on**

Before he could be a wuss and chicken out or do something stupid to ruin the mood, he was practically flinging himself at her, knocking her back on the couch and devouring her mouth like a damn hoover. Their noses were mushed together, their teeth clashing and his tongue shoved down her throat; nothing romantic at all about this, but she was mostly going with it so he wouldn't dare complain. Having her reclined beneath him—their bodies pressed deliciously and perfectly aligned even though his legs were dangling off the edge—was almost enough to set him off. The warmth of her skin, the friction in his pants as he subconsciously rocked against her, and the keening noises emanating from her throat was all a bit too much.

"Bed," she rasped.

**Come on, let me kiss that  
****Ooh, I know you miss that**

It seemed like a good idea in his fuzzy head as he grabbed her by the back of her thighs and wrapped them around his hips, but somewhere between trying to stand on his feet and simultaneously hoisting her up, his hands—clammy from the grope-fest—slipped.

"Whoa!"

He would've dropped her if she hadn't been clinging onto him with everything she had as he fell back onto the sofa. The next thing he knew, a blinding pain seared through his groin and shot straight to his rigid shaft where Quinn had unceremoniously landed her weight on. He couldn't move—couldn't even fucking breathe—and though his eyes were squeezed shut, he was seeing white spots behind his lids.

"Ow, fuck!" he wheezed, choking in gulps of air. "Fuck!"

"Oh, my God," Quinn cried out as she immediately clambered off him. "You okay, Sam?"

**What's wrong, let me fix that  
****Twist that**

His hands shot down to protectively cup his throbbing manhood, his body curling automatically in a fetal position. Never before in his entire adolescent life had he experienced such immense pain, he'd be damned if he never achieved another hard-on again.

"Son of a bitch," he groaned when the agony finally simmered into a dull ache. "I'm starting to think you don't want to have sex with me, Q."

She scoffed, folding her arms across her chest as she frowned. "Trying to carry me was your great idea."

"Didn't think you'd be that heavy."

He barely registered the outraged gasp before the flat of her palm was connecting squarely with his right cheek, effectively inflicting more bodily harm onto his person.

"That's for calling me fat, you dumbass."

* * *

She was still relatively irritated that he had the audacity to ridicule her weight, but each time she caught sight of the bag of frozen peas held to his wounded manhood, the anger ebbed a little bit more. His gaze was trained forward on the television, stoically watching an episode of his favorite sitcom. He hadn't laughed once; not even a small chuckle, and in her sexual frustration, she realized it wasn't really his fault.

"Does it still hurt?"

"What do you think?" he deadpanned.

The last of her exasperation drained out completely at the miserable tone in his voice. She took pity on him, and reckoned she could at least cut him some slack. If anything, their sexual encounters—or lack thereof—were just unfortunate cases of bad luck and terrible timing. Perhaps jumping the gun wasn't the smartest of ideas.

"I'm sorry," she began. "It's just—this is getting really annoying."

"What is?"

"This cock-block."

There was a slight twitch where he was struggling not to smile, but she saw through it all the same. That was a good sign, at least. If their almost non-existent sex life was going to be a bust, the optimistic approach they could take was to simply make a joke out of it. Hilarity always worked during awkward situations; like falling flat on the face in a puddle of poop.

"I guess we didn't receive the memo," he muttered, a certain degree of mirth to his words, slumping lower down the couch.

She shrugged her shoulders. "We'll just have to be one of those couples that don't have sex."

With a drawn-out groan, he visibly shuddered.

"I think I need a bigger bag of peas."

* * *

He was busy; more than a little preoccupied, taking care of some much needed business. Intently staring at the screen of his laptop, watching the scene play out in front of him, lecherous noises filling the room, he released a quivering breath. The swivel chair squeaked with each pump of his fist, in time with the cries of the busty brunette being utterly fucked against the wall.

Erotic as it seemed, he was taking longer than it usually would to finish, and his wrist was starting to ache from all the work. His lungs were burning, his galloping heart palpitating, sweat trickling down the side of his face, his fringe sticking to his forehead, and in all honesty, he forgot the sole reason why he even began in the first place.

Right; because he was fucking bored out of his mind.

Logically, turning to porn was a splendid plan.

Until it wasn't.

"Come on," he grumbled, furiously pumping his fist.

Exaggerated moans and uncharacteristic shrieking continued like surround sound, mocking him almost as he heard the telltale groan of a man in the heights of his pleasure. Yet, there he was, still painfully hard, aroused and unable to find the friction needed to tumble over the edge.

Suddenly, the door flew wide open.

He whipped his head around.

"Sam Evans, I've been—"

She froze, her sentence halting abruptly as she registered the scene before her. Grappling for some sort of sad excuse, his mouth hung open, his mind unable to process anything coherent. Her rounded hazel eyes darted from the computer on his desk to the shorts pooling around his ankles to the position of his hands, and finally landed right at him. Fire crept up from his chest and spread north towards the tips of his ears, looking remarkably guilty and mortified.

The silence between them hung like a plummeting skydive into the freezing ocean waters, and he hoped above all that a meteor would strike this moment and swallow him whole.

And then she burst out laughing.

Rudely; a full-blown guffaw that lasted a good thirty seconds and left him more than confused.

"Stop it," he snapped, reaching down to pull his pants back on.

"I'm sorry," Quinn managed between gasps of air, leaning against the doorjamb. "Please continue. Don't stop on my account."

Hitting several commands on the keyboard, he closed the video. "Shut up," he growled. "You were supposed to knock, anyway."

"I pressed the doorbell, actually," she informed him, still in giggles. "And your front door wasn't locked so I just let myself in. If I'd known you were otherwise engaged with prior personal activities, I would've waited till you were done before I entered."

"Alright, can we just drop it?" he sighed in exasperation. "Forget this ever happened."

Nonchalantly, she crossed the threshold and situated herself at the edge of his bed, daintily crossing her legs in a perfect representation of innocence, although he knew better. The devilish glint in those molten pools of gold were nothing but taunting weapons of seduction; the ever-present minx in her that constantly played with his self-control.

"Look, Sam, you have nothing to be embarrassed about. It's normal for a guy, isn't it?" she asked him with a tilt of her head; a question he didn't want to dictate with a response. "Why didn't you call me if you needed some help?"

"Considering that our sexual history is a complete disaster, I was just saving the both of us from more traumatic experiences," he mumbled. "Besides, I reckoned maybe it would help us."

Her eyebrows sprung up judgmentally. "Really?"

"Maybe there was something we were doing wrong, or something that we could perhaps try, you know," he replied like a rambling idiot. "Find something that works for the both of us, and if all else fails, maybe if I jerk off enough, it'd stop me from constantly getting a boner each time I kiss you."

**Baby, tonight's the night I let you know  
****Baby, tonight's the night we lose control  
****Baby, tonight you need that, tonight believe that  
****Tonight I'll be the best you ever had**

She was pursing her lips together—the way she did when she was solving a really complicated equation—and automatically his gaze zoned in on them; he couldn't help his traitorous bodily reactions and those rampant hormones running amok in his veins. The urge to pounce on her and ravage her properly—despite the odds working against them—mounted with each passing second that she stayed unspoken, so much so that he had to grip the arms of his chair to physically stop himself from following through with his thoughts.

"Did you find anything interesting?"

Time and again, she had never failed to astound him.

"Erm…" Clearing his throat, he began mentally nudging his brain for something—anything—to present to her; preferably an award-winning suggestion that would ensure neither one of them left feeling unsatisfied. "Well, there's this one thing that I'd really like to try, and it looks like it'll help with the—" he paused mid-sentence to let out a cough. "Chaffing problem."

She looked thoughtful. "Oh? What is it, then?"

He realized that he must've transited between a million shades of crimson. "Well, you know—that's only if you want to, of course—that I could perhaps, you know, service you…" he trailed off, glancing meaningfully at her. "Down there."

Her expression remained impassive.

"Orally."

She blinked.

"With tongue—"

"I get it," she interjected before he could spout out more inappropriate nouns and adjectives. "I get it."

He nodded. "But if you think it's going to be weird for you—"

"No!" she exclaimed, but then seemed startled at her own outburst. "I mean, I've heard about it—the girls in school wouldn't stop gushing about how it's the best thing ever—and the prospect intrigues me in theory, but, I just—what if it's not for everyone?"

"Then that's fine," he assured her, because the fact that she would even consider it was more than he could ask for. "If you don't like it, we'll stop. I'm not going to push you, I promise."

Her eyes flitted over his shoulder. "Was that what you were watching?"

"Well, it started out with that, and then, you know…"

"Okay," she fidgeted, suddenly looking nervous. "So, how do we go about it, then? Do I just—" she gestured down to her skirt. "Take it off and you do your stuff?"

**I hit you with the best stroke,  
****Freestyle and the breaststroke  
****Till you blow a cigarette smoke  
****And now the bed's broke**

Sam couldn't help but grin at how adorable she appeared to be when she was flustered and unsure. She was always so confident and composed in school; it was always interesting to unveil a different side of Quinn Fabray that he had the pleasure to witness only in the confines of their private lives. Rising to his feet, he took the steps necessary to stand in front of her and then cradled her delicate face between the palms of his hands, angling her head up to look her in those gorgeous eyes.

"We don't have to jump into it," he told her earnestly. "Why don't we start small and see where it naturally progresses to?"

She chuckled. "I can't believe you, the king of all impatience, is telling me to take it slow."

"Well, maybe that's where we went wrong in the first place," he concluded while half-wondering if probably wanking off too much had reduced a few major brain cells. "We were so eager to get it out of the way, it kind of lost its initial appeal."

"Look at you, going all wise-ass Yoda on me," she playfully slugged him on the bicep.

He crinkled his nose. "Yoda doesn't dish out sex advice, Quinn."

"Is that why Obi-Wan Kenobi didn't get laid while Anakin runs off with Padmé Amidala?"

"Okay, seriously, Q?"

"What?" she pouted coquettishly. "Star Wars not doing enough for you? I can do Avatar."

He closed the distance between them and swiftly accosted her lips before she could utter another word. All that geeky talk had him seriously turned on—not only because he was having some fantasies playing in his head of his blonde girlfriend dressing up in one of his favorite outfits—and he wasn't about to test out if he could jack off just on her voice alone. If she started spouting in Na'vi, he made no promises that he wouldn't jizz in his pants.

Their mouths slid against each other, and as soon as hers opened up, his tongue plundered in, dipping into her sweetness. He swallowed her moans, stroking and dancing with sweeping, swirling motions that made his toes curl. Her neck craned to reach him, and somewhere in the miniscule recesses of his mind, he figured that it probably wasn't very comfortable for her. Gradually, he lowered her down on the mattress; their lips parting for the short moment it took for her head to hit the dark blue duvet as he hovered over her on his elbows and knees.

**Baby, tonight's the night I let you know  
****Baby, tonight's the night we lose control  
****Baby, tonight you need that, tonight believe that**

"You alright?" he murmured.

Her long lashes fluttered as she blinked out of her haze, her pupils blown wide, her lips beautifully swollen from being thoroughly snogged. "Yeah," she breathed. "That was different."

His lopsided smile held a hint of cheekiness as he nudged her nose with his. "Good different or bad different?"

"Good," she rasped, releasing a shuddering exhale when he began peppering kisses down the slope of her neck before stopping to nip and suckle at her pulse point. "Definitely good."

**Tonight I'll be the best you ever had  
****I don't wanna brag, but I'll be  
****The best you ever had**

He released his feast on her skin to inspect his handy work, humming appreciatively at the darkened imprint that he had left behind. "I think I've finally understood the whole hickey thing."

"Oh, yeah?" she snickered. "Marking your territory?"

"Something like that."

She tutted. "Such a possessive ape. You do realize I'm not walking around with that like some trophy, right?"

He frowned. "Why not?"

"Because I'm not about to announce to the whole world that you went to town on me," she said with a roll of her eyes. "Subtlety is tactful."

"Completely beats the purpose, though, doesn't it?"

Quinn huffed. "Are we really having this discussion now?"

That snapped him back to the situation at hand—quite literally, as he glanced down at where he was conveniently cupping the sides of her clothe-covered breasts, his thumbs tracing circles against the cotton fabric. Taking advantage of his distraction, she hooked one toned leg over his derriere and slammed his hips down to meet her own, gripping the elastic band of his boxers to anchor him there as she ground up into his hardened bulge.

"Oh, shit," he hissed. "That's definitely different, too."

"You were taking way too long," she growled, her hands snaking beneath the flimsy material to give his taut rear a playful squeeze. "Are you ever going to get to it?"

He grinned; something elfish and predatory encompassed in one expression. "All in due time, Blondie."

"Don't call me that!" she shrieked, shoving at his chest. "You're fucking blonde too, you know."

His only validating response was a dismissive snort, and then he was resuming his task, dropping chaste, open-mouthed kisses down her sternum until he encountered a hindrance with her dress. Still, he ventured further south, his lips skating down her torso and past the flat of her stomach, shoving the offending skirt higher up her thighs. She squirmed under his touch, the cloth bunching up around her waist, and then he was looking straight at a lacy black number concealing her pot of honey. Instantly, he was hit with the heady, musky scent of her apparent arousal, igniting a groan from deep within his chest as his straining member twitched in anticipation.

**Baby, tonight's the night I let you know  
****Baby, tonight's the night we lose control  
****Baby, tonight you need that, tonight believe that**

"Fuck, Q," he grated out huskily. "Why didn't we do this the first time round?"

"Are you still talking?"

"No, ma'am."

Taking his index finger, Sam traced it over the edge of her knickers, eliciting a whimper of pleasure that flared up his desire for her. Tentatively, he broached the opening and slid his digit over her fleecy delta. He stifled a groan as he luxuriated in it and then came away dewy when he pulled it out. Unable to help himself, he stuck his tongue out to sample her essence.

"Oh, that's not so bad," he mused out loud, and then promptly hooked his thumbs over her waistband, dragging the flimsy material down the length of her legs. "Look at that!" he exclaimed gleefully. "You're dripping wet, Q."

"I would appreciate a little less of the commentary and a bit more of the action," she said through gritted teeth.

Willingly, he obliged to her demands, delving in for his first proper drink of her nectar. She gasped at the contact, her hips flying off the mattress, and he had to grip the swell of her hips to keep her in place. Her unique flavor exploded in his taste buds as he lapped and laved fervently, wanting nothing more than to drown in her perfection. She was succulent; he didn't think he could ever get enough of it.

Vaguely, he registered her fingers weaving through his hair, but the way her nails scraped against his scalp was exquisite and he fought to hold back the undignified noise bubbling from the back of his throat. She was positively writhing from the stimulation, her coherency reduced to mere monosyllabic words and gurgling noises.

**Tonight I'll be the best you ever had  
****I don't wanna brag, but I'll be  
****The best you ever had**

"Sam," she panted. "Sam, I can't—that feels—oh, God—so good. Keep going; don't stop—I think I'm close to—"

He wasn't going to allow that.

"Not yet," he murmured, retreating from her oasis to crawl back up her trembling form till he was aligned horizontally with her, his nose bumping against hers. She arched into him, and it was then that he was aware of the fact that they were still very much dressed. "Maybe we should get out of these pesky clothes first—"

"God, yes, please."

Hastily, with reckless disregard, he began ridding himself of the layers separating him from the soft silkiness of her skin. When all clothes had been tossed across the room and he was on display—starkers, for her ogling purposes—he frowned down where she was still clad in that damn sundress, now rumpled and more of a nuisance than ever.

Narrowing his eyes, he asked in a misplaced seriousness, "why aren't you naked, yet?"

"Because you're on top of me," she pointed out.

"Oh!"

However, instead of jumping off her, he decided that he'd rather enjoy undressing her himself and began undoing the buttons lining the front of her bodice. It was one of those annoying endless ones that reached to the hem of her skirt, but as more of her milky flesh was revealed for his viewing pleasure, he quickly ran out of patience. Narrowly avoiding ripping the rest of her frock off, he roughly peeled the material over her head, leaving her in only a black brassiere.

The creamy expanse of her stomach taunted and his gaze followed higher up to gape at the way her chest rose and fell with each shaky breath, her face flushed and eyes glazed over. He swallowed hard; she was so fucking gorgeous, it still astounded him till this day that she was his, and that most importantly, she wanted him enough to want to have sex with him. One lucky bastard; that was what he was.

**I don't wanna brag, but I'll be  
****The best you ever had**

"Take a picture, Evans; it'll last longer."

He smirked. "Oh, I definitely will," he promised. "But that can wait."

Thank God for front clasps. With a quick flick of his fingers, the satin fabric gave way. He wasted no time diving in to take her into his mouth, nuzzling between her breasts as he simultaneously lined himself up at her entrance. He lifted his head then, watching the litany of emotions flickering on her features each time the velvety tip of his manhood nudged enticingly where they both wanted it the most.

"You still alright?" he strained out.

She barely nodded. "Yeah."

"This is a pivotal moment in our relationship," he added with a thin coat of laughter. "You know that, right?"

"You're such a fucking dork, Sam," she groaned, wriggling beneath him.

He waggled his eyebrows at her. "Well, I'm the dork who is about to give you the best sex of your life."

"Yeah, we'll see about that."

"You ready?"

She scoffed. "I was ready ten minutes ago. What's the hold up?"

"You're so impatient."

With an amount of willpower he didn't know he possessed, Sam introduced himself into the warm harbor between her thighs, his arms straining from the effort not to simply shove his entire shaft in like he had before. The responding moan echoing off the walls sent a jolt of manly pride coursing through his veins, and then his whole body went rigid. Fully sheathed in her heat, he made a sound of immense gratification before glancing back down at her.

"Okay?"

She grinned drowsily. "It's perfect."

Emboldened, he withdrew from her, only to thrust in again, sinking completely, filling her to the hilt. He buried his nose in his favorite spot below her ear, nuzzling the softness of her skin and inhaling the apple-scented shampoo in her hair, committing the precise moment to his memory, knowing that from that point on, there would be more to come.

**I don't wanna brag, but I'll be  
****The best you ever had**

He began to move; gentle and imperative, shallow and slow, but no less potent as he felt the quick build-up from the foreplay and having him so tightly gloved in her warmth. The fingers that dug into the expanse of his back, the thighs that pressed into his hips, the ragged sporadic words of love she panted between kisses were his encouragement.

"Oh, God, Sam."

His hard virility pulsed inside her, driving them higher and higher as he stroked his thumb across her cheek, their chorus of breathy moans and passionate gasps lending a soundtrack to their lovemaking until they ultimately crested over a crescendo, exploding together in a burst of fireworks.

When it was over, he collapsed in a heap into her welcoming arms, feeling the last vestiges of his strength dissipate. Spent and sated, he pillowed his head on the cushioned mounds of her breasts.

"Was that better?" he murmured in question, eyes drifting shut.

She hummed.

**I don't wanna brag, but I'll be  
****The best you ever had**

"Much better."

* * *

**A/N:** The end! So that was 13 pages worth of Fabrevans steamy time on Microsoft Word, and I don't regret even a second of writing it. No joke, that was really fun!

Song used: "Tonight (Best You Ever Had)" by John Legend


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